


i fall into an ocean of you

by heartsinsync



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, In Denial!Lydia, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsinsync/pseuds/heartsinsync
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia needs to practise her drawing skills and Stiles is the lucky guinea pig. But it doesn't mean she has feelings for him or anything. Of course not. Post-3A AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is so hideously doom and gloom on Teen Wolf at the moment that I thought I'd write something nice and light to cheer myself (and other Stydia fans) up! Someone on Tumblr suggested that I write something set in 3A/early 3B so I came up with this little two-shot, which follows all the events before 3B faithfully and thereafter is AU. I just kind of ignored all the "heart of an immense darkness" stuff that Deaton bangs on about in 3x11 because there's quite enough darkness already in canon, thank you very much, so in this fic you just can pretend that Scott, Allison and Stiles got over it really quickly lol. A girl can dream, right?
> 
> Funnily enough I started writing this fic before 3x18 aired, so it's rather a coincidence that Lydia draws Aiden in that episode and she's drawing Stiles in this fic. I like the latter scenario much better, myself :)
> 
> Unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are mine! Hope you enjoy, please drop me a line and let me know what you think.
> 
> Title is from the beautiful song 'Sway' by Bic Runga.
> 
> Happy reading!

It starts with the tree. Not just any tree, of course. The blasted Nemeton.

In all honesty, Lydia would be perfectly, blissfully happy if she never heard that particular word ever again. It’s been weeks and she can still feel the downy hairs on the back of her neck standing up when she remembers bursting into Morell’s office with Stiles hot on her heels, seeing the startling realization dawn on his face and watching as he’d rifled frantically through the pages of her notebook. Terror had risen in her throat like bile, choking her; her breaths had been ragged with panic.

_How could she not remember drawing the same exact image every time?_

Sure, freakier things have happened to her (um, Peter Hale much?), but for some reason, nothing had made quite the same impression as seeing those identical, twisting roots replicated across ten, twenty, thirty pages, all in her own hand. After everything was said and done – after Stiles had held his breath and looked at her with eyes flaming like the setting sun, after she’d watched three of her closest friends drown icy deaths right in front of her, after her throat had been ripped raw from screaming in the face of a demon – after all that, she’d sat alone in her bedroom unable to sleep, staring so hard at her trembling fingers they became blurry.

That’s how it starts.

That very night, Lydia forces herself to put pen to paper; she forces herself to draw. She sketches harmless little doodles and countless cartoon-like caricatures, scrawls loopy hearts and lopsided stars, draws _anything_ to get those gnarled branches out of her mind.

After all those hellish months in the past when she thought she was seriously losing the plot, which didn’t turn out to be far from the truth, Lydia needs to do something to show herself that she’s still relatively sane – that she’s not becoming another puppet being poked and prodded into subservience, that her autonomy is her own. Even if it’s something as utterly mundane as drawing a bunch of symmetrical shapes and wonky patterns. She stays resolutely away from depicting anything even remotely plant-like.

And to her surprise, it works. Drawing becomes a respite from the otherworldly antics constantly taking place around her, from the creeping darkness that seems to loom around each and every corner, from the absolutely crazy turn her life has taken. Sitting quietly in her room at random intervals between studying, her trusty 2B pencil scratching the surface of her cartridge pad, makes her feel strangely safe. The normality of it all, of the swift sweeping motions of her hand and the deliberate marks she chooses to make, is somehow comforting.

That is, until it stops simply being a security blanket, and starts becoming a skill she actually wants to master.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s sketching furiously in her A4 sketchbook one lunchtime, her tray of food abandoned to the side, when Allison happens upon her.

“Still going hard on the drawings, huh?”

Without even looking up, Lydia can practically feel the waves of amusement emanating from her best friend. She growls softly under her breath and then sighs, finally lifting her head to greet the playful look on Allison’s face with a rather grumpy expression of her own.

“Yes, and it’s not going very well,” she says, well aware of the annoyance colouring her tone as she tosses her pencil dramatically onto the table.

Allison, now sliding onto the bench across from her, seems to be making an effort to hide her grin. Lydia narrows her gaze at the good humour sparkling in her best friend’s eyes.

“It’s not funny! I’ve been practicing for weeks!”

“Come on, Lydia,” Allison cajoles, unwrapping her sandwich. “There had to be at least _one_ thing that you don’t excel in, right?”

Lydia knows that Allison means this in jest. The only problem is that this time, she’s hit the nail right on the head. Calculations, equations, deductions, problem solving, memory recall – _these_ are Lydia’s specialties, the shining hallmarks of her unparalleled genius. A realist at heart, Lydia has always been remarkably clear-eyed about her capabilities, and she knows without a doubt that the razor-sharp mental tools she wields daily to further her academic prowess are highly impressive.

Knowledge comes quickly and easily to her; it always has. And while she never fully takes this for granted by slacking off in any of her subjects, it’s true that she’s grown accustomed to acing each and every one of her classes with minimum effort. In fact, if she was really honest with herself, Lydia would have to admit that the Beacon Hills High School curriculum hasn’t presented much of a challenge to her in, well, ever.

Drawing, however, is an entirely different ball game.

For once in her life, Lydia can’t reason or brainstorm or calculate her way out of this one. She can’t use the many skills in her arsenal to learn how to become an amazing artist, she can’t achieve pro status with her natural talents, she just has to–

“Fumble your way through it, like most people do with everything,” Allison finishes for her, still smiling. “Lydia, it’s not like an exam you have to pass. You can take your time with it, you know.”

Lydia hadn’t realized she’d been thinking aloud. Coming back to herself with a faint tinge of embarrassment, she admits, “Yeah, well, it’s just frustrating. I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on about three-dimensional form and perspective and proportion, but even when you’re as well-versed on the intricacies of the human anatomy as I am, it’s still difficult translating that pictorially.”

Lydia’s aware that she sounds overdramatic, but here’s the thing: she’s never failed _anything_ in her entire life. And she’s not about to start now.

“What are you drawing at the moment?” Allison asks, straightening up and arching a puzzled brow. “I thought you were working on landscapes?”

Lydia wrinkles her nose. “I wanted to start figure drawing,” she says, pushing her sketchbook across the table towards Allison. “And then I started working on faces, but…” She shrugs, conveying her dissatisfaction without words.

Allison begins flipping through the pages, pausing every now and then to study a sketch. Lydia feels suddenly and unaccountably nervous, even though she knows it’s only _Allison_. Still, she imagines that there’s more than a few similarities between writing in a journal and drawing in a personal sketchbook. She feels like Allison’s almost perusing a piece of her soul, pressed down on the thick white paper and rendered through smudged lead and ink.

“Hey, I’m in here!” Allison exclaims, interrupting Lydia’s musings. “And… Scott? And even Stiles!” She pauses, flicking through a few more pages. “Huh. Stiles makes a few appearances, actually.”

Allison looks up, her face just a little bit mischievous.

Lydia resists the urge to snatch the sketchbook back. She’d forgotten about those hastily scrawled portraits. “I needed some inspiration,” she says, getting a little defensive without really wanting to examine why. “It was getting boring drawing random models from the internet.”

She rolls her eyes when Allison seems to perk up, a wicked grin lighting up her face. “Not _those_ kinds of models,” she says in a half-amused, half-irritated tone. “And anyway, I see you three the most these days thanks to the constant supernatural hijinks, so I figured I might as well make good use of it for drawing practice.”

“Well,” Allison says slowly, “Maybe that’s what you need more of, then. Drawing from live subjects is supposed to be the best way to get better, right?”

Lydia eyes her friend suspiciously.

“And since Stiles is clearly your favourite subject…” Allison trails off, her expression one of supreme innocence with just a touch of innuendo thrown in for good measure. She directs her stare rather meaningfully to a table several meters to the left of their own, and Lydia, somewhat reluctantly, follows her gaze.

Scott, Stiles and Isaac are arrayed around the table, deep in conversation. Two dark heads and one light one are bent over to form an unmistakable barrier against the rest of the world. Lydia has no idea what they could be talking so intently about. Since the death of the Darach, everything’s been fairly quiet on the supernatural front. _Though of course, things never stay that way for long around here_ , she reflects darkly.

It looks like Stiles and Isaac are arguing; the former is gesticulating wildly with an almost comically forceful expression on his face, while the latter simply looks mutinous. Scott, the would-be mediator, looks unsurprisingly exasperated as he watches his two best friends duking it out. He has the air of a person who has seen this self-same scenario play itself out many times in the past, with consistently uninspiring results.

As Isaac turns to direct his next comment to Scott, however, Stiles seems to sense their (admittedly unsubtle) stares. She watches him tilt his head to catch first Allison’s eye, mouthing a friendly hello, before turning to meet her own gaze.

A couple years ago, Stiles probably would’ve spluttered embarrassingly with excitement if he ever caught Lydia noticing him. A year back, his reaction would’ve been a goofy grin accompanied by an over-the-top wave. In the here and now, however, Stiles doesn’t do any of those things. He simply gives her a slow and crooked smile, his eyes so warm she feels like they’re sharing a personal and unspoken inside joke.

Lydia offers him a quick answering smile in return before whipping her head back, thinking that she probably shouldn’t dwell on that smile or those eyes for too long. It’s for her own good, honestly.

“You seriously think I should ask Stiles if I can _draw_ him?” Lydia asks Allison now, her voice full of doubt. “Wouldn’t that be kind of…”

_Weird? Awkward? **Intense?** _

Lydia doesn’t finish her sentence, but her expression must speak volumes.

Allison shrugs nonchalantly, her dark curls bobbing with the movement. “It’d definitely help you to improve, right? And let’s be honest. It’s Stiles. He’s not going to say no to you.”

With this she returns to her yoghurt, the smallest of smiles quirking her lips. ‘I rest my case’ goes unsaid, but it’s understood either way. Lydia bites her lip, running her fingers along the thick edge of her sketchbook.

This could be very good. Or very, very bad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her next class immediately after the lunch break is English. Lydia’s heeled boots click briskly on the tiled floor as she enters the classroom, only to falter slightly when she sees Stiles already slouching casually in his assigned seat, directly to the right of hers. 

 _Fantastic, that’s just what I need_ , she thinks, feeling far more rattled than the situation really calls for. _An hour sitting next to Stiles after that stupid conversation with Allison. Damn her for putting ideas in my head!_

She makes her way to her desk, trying to ignore the way Stiles’s eyes follow her. Once seated, Lydia makes rather a fuss of preparing herself for the lesson; arranging her pens just so, aligning her notebook neatly with the edge of the desk, taking her time printing the date and class in her neat, block writing. She refuses to admit the real reason for her overly zealous attentions towards her stationery, even though that reason is sitting so close she could easily reach out a hand and touch him.

“Hey, Lydia.”

She considers ignoring him for a second, but decides against it. That would be a bit of an overreaction. After all, it’s not like Stiles himself has done anything in particular to offend her.

It’s just his, you know, general presence that’s causing a slight problem.

“What?”

Stiles raises a bemused eyebrow at her prickly tone. “Nothing, it’s just…” He pauses. “Is everything okay? I saw you and Allison at lunch and you looked like, I dunno. Really stressed out about something.”

He looks genuinely concerned for her and it makes Lydia feel like an idiot. She flushes very slightly and snaps, “It’s nothing, I’m totally fine,” in a slightly higher pitch than usual.

Stiles looks more puzzled than affronted by her harsh voice, but at that precise moment the new English teacher arrives, and he consents to simply shoot her a quizzical look as the class begins.

They’re currently studying _To Kill A Mockingbird_. It’s a book Lydia’s read (and analysed herself, out of pure interest) so many times before that its effectiveness as a distraction is zero to none. In fact, she’s so aware of Stiles’s every insignificant movement beside her that she’s practically vibrating out of her skin, and it’s making her furious with herself.

She’s Lydia Martin, for god’s sakes. No-one has ever had this kind of effect on her, except maybe Jackson in the early days, and that was a long time ago when she was a naïve and lovesick freshman. Lydia scoffs to think that she’s comes face to face with power-hungry werewolves and all manner of crazed supernatural demons, and yet it’s _Stiles Stilinski_ who’s making her squirm with anxiety.

She supposes that the kiss is to blame. Not just any kiss, of course – _that_ kiss. The panic attack kiss. The you-held-your-breath kiss. The it-wasn’t-supposed-to-feel-this-way-holy- _fuck_ -what-have-I-gotten-myself-into kiss. Yeah, that one.

They’d been under duress at the time, with a million other more important things demanding their attention than one measly little lip lock. But even when it was all over, they still hadn’t talked about it. Lydia had done what she always did best when it came to matters of the heart and simply avoided the issue. She hadn’t wanted to think about what the kiss might have meant, if anything, and Stiles, unusually for him, hadn’t pushed it either, so the topic had just never come up. They’d moved on and were quite as close as they’d been before, although there was perhaps a new tautness underlying their gazes these days – but what’s a little sexual tension between friends?

Lydia watches Stiles subtly out of the corner of her eye as the class continues, and tries to be objective about the matter. She needs to improve her figure drawing skills. To do so, she needs a friend to be her live subject. Stiles is her friend and he has the kind of bone structure that’s, uh, not entirely displeasing to the eye – from a purely artistic point of view, that is. Ergo, she should just ask Stiles point blank and not make a big deal out of it. Right?

Lydia can feel something strange fluttering in her stomach, but she refuses to acknowledge that it might be butterflies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She finds him after school in the parking lot, standing next to the Jeep and having what sounds like a fierce argument with Scott.

“No way, buddy,” Stiles is saying passionately as Lydia approaches. “Spiderman would _own_ Captain America every single time, I swear–”

But Scott’s already shaking his head, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Peter Parker would be completely screwed without his powers,” he points out.* “Hey, Lydia.”

Stiles swivels around so quickly it’s almost comical. “Hey, Lydia!” he echoes, sounding slightly out-of-breath.

Lydia rolls her eyes as she comes to a stop in front of them. “You two are living a real-life supernatural drama, and yet you still have the time and enthusiasm to debate the merits of Marvel comic book characters,” she says dryly. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Scott just shrugs, still grinning, as he tucks his motorcycle helmet under his arm.

“What can I say? We’re good at multitasking. I’m heading off now, but Stiles – it’s going to be okay. Just accept how completely wrong you are and I promise, all will be forgiven.”

Stiles is mouthing wordlessly with indignation in response to this blatant jibe. Scott just laughs as he claps Stiles hard on the back before offering Lydia a parting smile, which she returns. They both watch Scott take off in the direction of his motorbike.

Stiles is shaking his head now and muttering something under his breath about “Captain America… he’s _delusional_ ,” before remembering that Lydia’s still standing there in front of him. He turns to face her with a small, slightly hesitant smile on his face.

“Hey, what’s up?”

 _Well, it’s now or never_. Lydia lifts her chin defiantly and looks Stiles straight in the eye.

“I have a favour to ask you.”

She’s pleased to hear that her voice sounds sure and strong, no hint of a nervous quiver.

“Anything,” Stiles agrees, without preamble. His voice is suddenly soft and steady as he meets her gaze straight on, his eyes the colour of butterscotch in the afternoon sunlight.

For a split second, his ready acquiescence and that affectionate expression jolts Lydia right off track. She feels inexplicably warm and shivery, and more confused than ever. It still freaks her out how he can do this – go from jokey, clumsy idiocy in one moment to sweet, swoon-inducing earnestness in the next. And it’s always for _her_. She only ever sees that beautiful sincerity illuminating his face when he’s looking at her.

Lydia simply can’t wrap her brain around it, even after all this time. How can he be so… so… so _in love_ with her? He’s seen her at her very worst this past year, screaming, crying, scheming, lashing out – and yet his regard for her seems as constant and unwavering as it ever was.

It’s amazing. It’s terrifying.

Lydia quickly regains her composure, shaking off these needless thoughts. _Just do it now_ , she urges herself, annoyance at her own reticence reaching breaking point. _It’ll be like ripping off a Band-Aid, fast and painless._

“I want to draw you.”

She hears the words as if they’re spoken by someone else. There’s a slight pause, during which Lydia struggles to maintain direct eye contact with Stiles, whose face has undergone a strange series of rather amusing contortions. Lydia swears she’s never seen a person’s eyes actually bulge before, but right now Stiles is going all out proving that eye bulging is indeed a real phenomenon.

“You… want to–? Wait, what? You want to… _draw_ me?”

He doesn’t sound adverse to the idea, Lydia notes with some relief. Nor is he laughing at her. He simply sounds confused. Very, very confused.

“Yes,” she says, her voice sharp with impatience. Realising how utterly out of the blue her proposition must have seemed to him makes her feel a little foolish, prompting her to sound more cutting than she really intends. “Ever since I drew the Nematon, I’ve been working on face and figure drawing, but in order to do it well I need a live model. Congratulations, you’re the lucky candidate. So, will you do it?”

Lydia’s right hand is subtly fiddling with the clasp of her bag at this point, but her face betrays none of her nervousness. To Stiles, she looks as cool and collected as she ever does, one dainty eyebrow perfectly arched as she waits for his response.

Stiles, for his part, is still clearly having a difficult time grasping the gist of the conversation. “But…” He trails off, sounding bewildered. “Why would you want to draw me? I mean, it’s really cool that you’re doing this,” he hurries to assure her. “And I’m not saying no, like seriously not at all in the slightest refusing you, but it’s just that surely there are other people you had in mind – like Allison or…?”

Aiden’s name hovers unspoken in the air between them, the proverbial elephant in the room. In truth, Lydia hasn’t replied to any of Aiden’s messages for well over a fortnight. Her interest in him has fizzled out in the last month, once she'd started really thinking about everything Deucalion’s pack had put her and her friends through, but she refuses to discuss this particular subject with Stiles, of all people.

“No,” she says now, her firm voice brooking no arguments. “I need the right model for this and I want to draw you. You have the perfect bone structure for it, really.”

She blurts out the latter part without thinking, her mind still buzzing angrily about Aiden. When she sees the amazed and incredulous expression on Stiles’s face, however, Lydia recalls her words and feels her own cheeks beginning to heat up. _Shit shit shit shit._

His eyes are suddenly alight and there’s this warm, lovely grin growing on his face. It makes her want to hug him or hit him. Possibly both.

“So you’ve been admiring my bone structure, huh?” Stiles asks, in an impossibly cheeky voice. The grin is now fully-fledged.

Lydia sends him one of her worst glares but it only eggs him on; he looks more playful than ever. Her eyes linger on the slightly crooked lilt of his smile, the wavering edge of his top lip. She wants to commit the sight to paper.

 _And you will_ , she thinks to herself with a jolt. Unbidden, a shiver runs right through her body and she instinctively starts to turn, taking a step back from the boy who’s so rudely making her feel all these peculiar and unwanted sensations.

Stiles is still practically beaming at her, and Lydia sighs a little in resignation, unsure of what she’s really gotten herself into.

“Just don’t let it go to your head,” she says pointedly, tossing the comment over her shoulder as she turns from the Jeep and heads in the direction of her own car.

The sound of Stiles’s laughter follows her all the way home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *this conversation was the brainchild of the amazing Levvie (obrozey @ tumblr), aka the queen of Skittles
> 
> I'm aware this first chapter contained a lot of exposition but I really wanted to set the scene right! I'm still getting used to writing from Lydia's POV and I'm not sure I'm really nailing it yet, so apologies if it's a little OOC in places.
> 
> Next time: Awkward!Stiles, Aroused!Lydia, and Suspicious!Sheriff Stilinski. Also, it turns out that Stiles is a make-out ninja. Who would've guessed, huh?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second (smuttier) installment. Hope you enjoy!

She’s nervous. She’s actually _nervous_. This is unacceptable.

 _Pull it together_ , Lydia scolds herself as she sits in her car, stalling for time in the Stilinskis’ driveway. Luckily no-one’s peered out the window yet and seen her parked out there for the last five or so minutes.

 _It’s just_ Stiles _. And you’re just drawing him, it’s no big deal. It’s not like you’re going to do… anything else._

Half-flustered, half-irritated at the wandering direction of her thoughts, Lydia smooths out the flowing skirt of her dress in an effort to compose herself. She’d dressed with her usual care this morning, picking out a forest green dress that brought out the colour in her eyes and taming her long auburn hair into soft curls. The familiar process of styling herself and meticulously applying her make-up had felt as safe and comforting as it always did, allowing Lydia a brief respite from the buzzing thoughts that had plagued her since she’d messaged Stiles the previous day.

_(Stilinski, are you free tomorrow afternoon?_

_Hey Lydia! Yeah I am, what for?_

_For a game of Yahtzee and lawn bowls, of course. What do you think?! For my drawing session._

_Good to know you’re not just heavy on the sarcasm in person :) Sounds good! And in all seriousness, I wouldn’t be opposed to a round or two of Yahtzee.)_

Now, however, the nerves have all come rushing right back. But Lydia wasn’t the lead in the Beacon Hills High School drama production three years running for nothing. If there’s one thing she’s absolutely superb at (and it’s one talent among many), it’s the supremely confident face she always presents to the world, even during those times she feels anything but.

With this bolstering thought in mind, Lydia takes a deep breath and tosses her hair back, finally stepping out of the car with her trademark grace. After removing her large sketchbook and drawing utensils from the back seat and locking up, she proceeds to the front door, quickly jabbing a finger at the doorbell before she has the chance to overthink it too much.

Seconds later, she hears footsteps that unmistakably belong to Stiles (she represses an eye roll – is he actually _bounding_ down the stairs?), before the door swings wide open. He grins widely when he catches sight of her and she smiles back, her nervousness receding very slightly in the face of his obvious enthusiasm.

“Hey, Lydia!” he greets, immediately moving to relieve her of her load. He shuts the door behind her as she steps inside and all of a sudden, Lydia becomes aware of how calm and quiet the house is. “You, uh, you look really nice. Is this all your drawing stuff? Do you want me to take it upstairs?”

“Um yeah, thanks,” she says, wondering idly if Sheriff Stilinski is home.  

She’s still standing by the front door as Stiles begins to make his way back up to the second level. As she peers around, taking in the neat and cosy living room, Stiles pauses on the second stair and turns back to look at her with an inquisitive expression.

“Oh, wait – do you want a water or juice or anything?”

In response to her headshake, Stiles jerks his head in the direction of his bedroom. “Okay, well, you can come up now if you like.”

She swallows and nods, following him up the stairs. Stiles is now prattling on like there’s no tomorrow (“Thanks for coming over! I mean, I could’ve gone to your house if that was easier but I figured, since Dad’s at work today we’d have the place to ourselves–uh, so you can draw! In peace, you know, without him asking stupid questions and annoying you and making things weird, so yeah…”), but she’s only half-listening.

It suddenly strikes her anew that she’s going to be alone with Stiles, in very close quarters and possibly for hours, with nothing werewolf-y, kanima-esque, or Darach-related to distract her from their proximity. Sure, in the recent past they’ve spent plenty of time together, but it’s always been all business. After all, when it comes to researching, theorizing, and plotting new ways to take down the endless slew of Beacon Hills bad guys, the whole pack knows that Stiles and Lydia are a force to be reckoned with.

Now, however, the whole point of Lydia seeing Stiles outside of school is, well, Stiles himself. She bites her lip, thinking this, as they enter Stiles’s bedroom, which he has quite clearly tidied up in her honour. It’s almost ridiculously neat, the bed perfectly made, his books grouped tidily on his desk, and the carpet… has he _vacuumed?_ She struggles against the sudden desire to laugh.

Stiles is placing her sketchbook and drawing pencils carefully on his bed, and as Lydia turns to look at him properly for the first time since she’s arrived, she feels the urge to giggle dying out in her throat.

 _Oh. I guess his room’s not the only thing he’s tidied up for me_.

With her keen sense of style, Lydia’s well used to scrutinising what boys and girls her age are wearing and sizing them up in a second, so it’s not that Stiles has done a full-on wardrobe makeover or anything. But he’s wearing a deep blue T-shirt she’s never seen before that fits his torso perfectly; she can just make out the slight ridge of his stomach muscles against the soft cotton when he moves. His jeans are dark and tapered, and the way they mold to his ass when he bends over the bed slightly almost gives her a heart attack. His hair, recently grown out just the way she likes it, looks soft and spiky all at once, making her fingers itch to touch it.  

All in all, he looks spectacularly and unfairly attractive, and Lydia hastens to blame her recent spell of celibacy for the spike of lust that shoots right through her.

 _It’s just because you haven’t had sex with Aidan in weeks_ , she reassures herself, as Stiles turns back around and offers her a small grin. _Keep it in your pants, Martin._

“So…” Stiles begins, interrupting her internal monologue. He’s shrugging his shoulders up and tucking his hands into his pockets in the way that Lydia has come to realise means he’s feeling a little awkward. “Is this okay? We could try another room in the house but my bedroom actually has the best lighting, so I figured–”

“No, it’s perfect,” Lydia interrupts, flashing him a sweet smile. He’s actually right, she muses, her mind now busily contemplating the task at hand. When it comes to her drawings Lydia likes working in contrasts, and the bright beams of sunshine filtering in through the large window by his bed will create the perfect balance of light and shadows.

She’s debating whether she’d like to draw Stiles face on or in profile when she realises the subject in question is just standing there, watching her with a hesitant look on his face. Still preoccupied with her thoughts on perspective and composition, Lydia suddenly moves forward to grab Stiles’s arm and push him down onto the bed. Ignoring both his surprised “Huh?” and the way her insides quiver at the submissive position this puts him in, she stays standing up and looks around the room with a considering frown on her face.

“Everything okay?” Stiles asks, following her gaze towards his desk.

“Yeah,” she replies distractedly, turning back to look at him. Her stomach clenches when she realises just how close they really are; he’s sitting down right in front of her, and his upturned face is mere inches away from her breasts. She’s suddenly very aware of his body heat.

“I was just thinking… I want to draw you in profile, which means you can probably do something else while you’re in the pose. As long as you don’t move around too much, of course,” she adds, giving him a stern look.

Stiles grins up at her, looking so warm and pleased for a second that she catches her breath. “Hey, don’t start doubting me before we’ve even started. Just cause I flail my arms around a lot doesn’t mean I don’t know how to sit still just as well.”

He ducks around her to pick up his backpack, emptying out numerous papers, pens, and a paperback version of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ onto his pillow. “I’ve actually got to start that essay for English anyway, so I’ll do that. Have you finished it yet?” He asks, settling himself back on the bed.

“Last week,” Lydia says offhandedly, as she finally takes a seat and opens up her sketchbook.

His grin only widens. “Of course you did, why did I even bother to ask?” He says good-humouredly.

Rolling her eyes at his teasing tone, she leans forward to touch his face. Stiles’s eyes widen slightly, before he realises she’s simply manoeuvring him into the right position. He’s lying on his front on the bed, his homework spread out in front of him, and Lydia presses gently on his jaw, tilting his face to the side so that his profile is sharply outlined against the light from the window.

They both say nothing as she moves back onto her seat and picks up her pencil. After a brief pause, Stiles begins to write, and Lydia begins to draw.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It turns out, Stiles was right. He _can_ stay still.

For the next hour, Lydia sketches with a kind of furious focus, her mind quiet and intense, yielding mere flashes of the visual details laid out in front of her. Those envy-inducing lashes, rendered almost see-through by the pouring sunlight; the long straight edge and surprisingly pert turn of Stiles’s nose; the collection of moles sprinkled just below his right cheek, almost perfectly halfway between his ear and mouth. Wholly absorbed in her work, Lydia is reminded once again of exactly why she loves drawing so much. It’s like another plane of existence, one where she’s not Lydia Martin, beautiful genius, most popular girl in school, immune, banshee; she’s not anyone, she just _is_.

She’s not really thinking during this time, at least not in any concrete sense of the word. ‘Marvelling’ would perhaps be a more appropriate verb. It’s funny, but she’s never really thought that boys were beautiful before. Handsome, yes; chiselled, definitely; stunningly attractive, of course. Jackson, Aidan, and the whole conga line of boys she slept with to get over Jackson’s departure were all of these things.

But Stiles is – there’s no other world for it – _beautiful_. She feels a strangely satisfying sense of pleasure in having the privilege of studying his features and replicating their likeness down on paper; finds herself wondering (not for the first time) how the hell she never even noticed him, not once, before the werewolves and hunters came to Beacon Hills and everything changed for good.

It’s late afternoon when Lydia finally puts down her pencil, uttering a sigh of exhaustion and stretching up to get rid of the kinks in her back. Stiles hums a little in consideration, scrawling down one last sentence, before he too drops his pen and tilts his head towards her with a slight smile.

“Is it all done? Can I break my pose now?”

“Yes,” Lydia says, her voice slightly hoarse from disuse. She can feel herself starting to beam at him, and for once doesn’t make an effort to reel it in. She’s happy with what she’s accomplished in this drawing session, and she knows that it’s really all thanks to Stiles.

“Well?” He says eagerly, pushing his essay to the side and moving into a sitting position. “Am I allowed to see it?”

Feeling slightly embarrassed but knowing she can’t very well refuse, Lydia nods. Stiles slides off the bed and approaches her, kneeling down by her side, and together they study her best drawing to date.

Looking at it now, aware of Stiles’s gaze on her work, Lydia knows she’s made a few mistakes. His hair isn’t quite right – she needs to work on capturing the slightly unruly nature of those dark tufts at the front. The light shadow by his mouth and under his eye should be exaggerated more, coloured in darker. His eyebrows look good, but she’d had a hard time capturing the fineness of those constantly fluttering lashes, and it shows.

Despite these self-criticisms, however, Lydia’s still pleased with the portrait. It looks like Stiles, and more importantly, it _feels_ like him. He looks so real to her; she thinks that at any moment, he might blink on the page and she wouldn’t even be surprised.

The ludicrous idea brings a smile to her face, and she turns to see what the real live version of her drawing thinks. Watching him watch himself is an interesting experience, and leaning slightly closer to study him, she’s astonished to see a faint red flush rising on his cheeks.

“Stiles,” Lydia says slowly, trying to keep her growing amusement from colouring her voice. “Are you _blushing?_ ”

He ducks his head away immediately and she can’t help it; she laughs merrily as she drops her sketchbook and tugs him back towards her. He turns around reluctantly and Lydia’s delighted to see that he is indeed blushing. The sight seems to fill her up, overwhelming affection for him gushing up inside of her.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, as she continues grinning at him, bright with mirth. “I just never thought _Lydia Martin_ would be drawing me in my own bedroom… it’s insane, in like the best way possible.”

He lifts his head and the smile slides right off her face, her eyes widening at his expression, so full of wonder it pierces right through her. He’s still kneeling beside her seat and she’s arched over, her face so close to his, her hand still clutching a fistful of his shirt.

“That drawing is amazing, Lydia. You’re… you’re really amazing.”

Her breathing catches, then quickens and she sees it register on his face, sees the way the colour darkens in his irises. Caught in his gaze, she feels like every single nerve in her body is suddenly alive, electricity flooding through her veins.

When it happens, it’s so different to the way it was before. That last time, she’d kissed him without even blinking, rushing forwards and colliding with all the force of a raging river, the anticipation of the kiss itself non-existent, subsumed by her desperate panic to do something, _anything_ , to save him. The surprise and awe had come later, when she’d pulled away ever so slowly, keeping her eyes closed because that way she’d be able to contain the feeling just a little longer, savour its warmth without having to face that heart-stopping look on Stiles’s face.

So yes, that kiss is completely different to this one. But one thing remains the same.

Lydia is the first one to make a move.

She can’t make herself wait anymore, that’s the simple truth of it. She’s wanted this for so long, possibly before their previous kiss, possibly for the last six months, and she’s tired of denying it when it’s right in front of her every day, when Stiles is right in front of her now with his golden eyes and his large hands and his stupid grin and his ever-constant sarcasm and that soft expression that always finds her and says, _you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine_.

She reaches out to touch his face, her eyes never leaving his, and Stiles doesn’t seem at all surprised when she moves forward that crucial inch to press her lips against his; indeed, he meets her with equal, even overt, enthusiasm. He kisses her softly at first and then harder, faster, kisses her like he’s a man dying of thirst in the desert and she’s a glass of ice water; forcefully but not ungracefully, his hand coming up to cup the back of her head so gently it sends shivers through her.

Lydia’s thought about what it would be like to kiss Stiles again, tried to picture the exact scenario and how it would feel, but somehow she was never able imagine it this clearly in her head – the pleasurable friction of his mouth against hers, the soft dart of his tongue tracing her upper lip, the way she finds herself yielding to him so easily, her hands sliding from his face down his neck to his shoulders, grasping him closer and feeling the taut muscles tense beneath her grip.

She moans against his mouth and he shudders against her, breaking away for a second, his breathing laboured as he tilts his forehead against her own and tries to collect himself. Lydia makes a protesting noise and leans back, tilting his chin up so she can look right at him. The sight makes clench her thighs – his pupils are completely blown, his eyes a dark coffee-coloured brown heavy with lust, and his mouth is already slightly swollen, a hint of her strawberry lip gloss glinting on his lower lip. She resists the temptation to lean forwards and lick it off.

“What are you doing?” She demands instead.

“I just–” Stiles is still breathing heavily, his face a study in contrasts: arousal, confusion, hope, longing, disbelief. “ _Fuck_ , Lydia, I don’t– What just happened? Is this–? Are we really doing this?”  

Lydia rolls her eyes and stands up, dragging him with her and pushing him onto the bed, before climbing on herself and moving up to straddle him. Stiles’s eyes are huge with wonder, watching her every move as if he still can’t believe this is really happening, as if it’s just his regular wet dream and any second now the alarm for school’s going to go off.

“Well, we _were_ doing this until you so rudely interrupted,” she says sweetly, yanking Stiles forward by his shirt once more until their faces are mere breaths apart. “So if you’ll kindly shut up now, we can get right back to it.”

Lydia doesn’t give him a chance to respond, surging forwards to kiss him once again, and this time he offers no objections. She gasps as his tongue finds its way into her mouth, sliding wetly against her own, and she finds herself hazily wondering how Stiles even became such a good kisser. As far as she knows, he hasn’t been hooking up with any girls at school.

_Or maybe he’s just naturally gifted? Ugh, who cares._

She attempts to align her body even closer against his, pressing her breasts against his chest. Stiles’s hands move leisurely up her body to grasp her waist, and she’s so busy enjoying the ministrations of his mouth that it takes her a second to realise what he’s doing. His left hand is sliding up, up, and as she arches impatiently, waiting for him to cup her in his hand, he pauses. He’s _almost_ there, but he doesn’t move any further – simply swipes his thumb softly but firmly against the underside of her breast, and with that she almost comes undone.

Lydia doesn’t know why that that tiny gesture is such a turn-on. Certainly, neither Jackson nor Aidan had ever been tentative with her body – they’d always moved straight in for the kill, confident of their own sexual prowess and her arousal, and she’d loved it every time. But there’s something so utterly _Stiles_ about this seemingly insignificant move, teasing and titillating her without being too over the top, and it so perfectly characterises her relationship with him so far that suddenly, she’s wetter than ever.

Stiles must sense the change in her; he groans when she kisses him more fiercely than before and then suddenly comes to life beneath her, using his hips to nudge her aside and switch their positions so that she’s now on the bed and he’s looming over her. For a second, Lydia just lies there, still panting, taking in the sight of him hovering just out of her reach – the strong line of his shoulders, the hard focused look in his eyes, the dark hair mussed by her wandering hands. He’s staring at her so intently that she feels almost, _almost_ , shy, but she resists the urge to turn away and boldly meets his gaze instead.

She thinks that there’s something very thrilling about the way Stiles sees her. Before she’d just been a pretty girl placed high up on a pedestal of his own making, but now – now, everything’s different. Now he’s learned that she’s fallible, that she’s erratic and unpredictable and sometimes irrational, that she’s been broken before, not once but twice, and she’s only just figuring out how to put herself back together – and he still wants her. Stiles looks at her and there’s still unclouded hope and love and affection in his eyes, and she doesn’t know when she started drawing strength from his faith in her but she knows she definitely does now, every day.

He’s not looking at her eyes anymore; his attention has moved a little lower, to where the neckline of her dress is gaping open. Lydia smiles, rising up on her elbows to unbutton her dress, and he rears back slightly, meeting her gaze with a hungry if hesitant expression on her face. She continues calmly undoing all the buttons until her lacy black bra is completely revealed, the curves of her breasts pale against the dark fabric.

“You can touch me if you want to, you know,” she says, a hint of amusement threading through her voice as she watches him carefully.

Stiles turns to look at her and Lydia realises that it’s not really hesitance she’s seeing. It’s a calm, measured kind of restraint that makes her suddenly strain against him, wanting more, right _now_.

“I know,” he says quietly, and then he’s descending upon her.

He’s Stiles and yet he’s _not_ Stiles – at least, not the Stiles that she’s experienced.

He’s Stiles in the way that he peppers her neck with sweet, brief, open-mouthed kisses, trailing a line up to her ear before sucking wetly on her earlobe. He’s Stiles in the way that he hums very gently when she runs her hands through his hair, tugging on the ends as they kiss, licking each other’s lips. He’s Stiles in the way that he trails his right hand in a soft, caressing gesture, back and forth along her arm.

He’s _not_ Stiles in the way that he finally touches her breasts – rubbing her nipples with a rough firmness until they’re so hard that it makes her cry out. He’s not Stiles in the way that he thrusts against her, his arousal straining heavily against his jeans and making her whimper with need. He’s not Stiles in the way that he groans loudly when she finally runs her palms up and under his shirt, pressing her fingers against the muscles so hard that she knows it’ll leave bruises.

She’s finally tearing off his T-shirt, gasping for breath as she arches up and he rocks his erection against her, when the loud knock startles them both.

“Stiles?” It’s Sheriff Stilinski, sounding vaguely puzzled but not quite suspicious. Yet. “What are you doing?”

The Sheriff’s voice has the effect of a bucket of cold water being dumped over both their heads. Stiles leaps off the bed, limbs flying in every direction as he struggles to get back into his shirt, while Lydia hastily refastens her bra and rebuttons her dress, quickly patting down her hair and cursing her decision to wear such fiddly clothing.

“Just a minute, Dad!” Stiles calls in a strangled voice, as he scoops up Lydia’s sketchbook from the floor and turns to face her with a deranged look on his face. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Lydia hisses, casting furtive glances at the door. The Sheriff must surely be getting impatient at this point.

Stiles stands, suspended in motion, his mind clearly buzzing with options. His eyes rove between her and the built-in closet beside the bed, and Lydia, guessing the direction of his thoughts, narrows her gaze.

“Stiles Stilinski,” she says, her voice whisper-soft but sharp with menace, “If you even dare to try stuff me in your closet like common garbage, I swear to God you will die a violent, virginal death!”

Far from looking intimidated by this threat, Stiles simply grins; he catches her eye, his expression so filled with amusement that she knows he’s seconds away from laughing out loud. To her horror, she feels her own lips quivering as well and has to work hard to keep herself from giggling hysterically. This situation is utterly _ridiculous._

“Come here,” she whispers, moving back towards the bed. “This is what we’re going to do.”

When the Sheriff opens Stiles’s door seconds later, he finds Stiles lying on his bed, flipping through _To Kill A Mockingbird_ and making notes against the margins. Lydia’s sitting at the desk, engrossed in a particularly challenging homework exercise in the Chemistry textbook. They both look up when he enters.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles says casually, putting down his book. “How was work?”

“Hey, Mr Stilinski,” Lydia chirps, a sunny smile on her face.

The Sheriff looks from Stiles to Lydia, then back again. They both meet his gaze, innocently curious expressions on their faces. He frowns slightly.

“It was good,” he says slowly, answering his son’s question. “Just wanted to tell you that I’m going to start making dinner soon. Lydia, do you want to stick around?”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Lydia assures him, closing the Chemistry textbook. “I should probably be getting home soon anyway, I’ll start packing up my stuff now.”

“Okay,” the Sheriff says in a mild voice, turning around and casting another considering glance at Stiles’s face. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

With that, he makes his exit – but takes care to leave Stiles’s bedroom door open.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lydia, Allison and Scott are standing outside by Scott’s bike on Monday morning, discussing the hideously difficult Calculus test they’re all sitting next Wednesday, when the Jeep cruises past them and swerves into a parking spot around the corner. Their conversation dies out as they turn to watch Stiles emerging from the driver’s side, clearly cursing as his jacket gets caught in the loop of his seatbelt.

Lydia grins at the sight, digging around in her bag for her phone and quickly composing a txt message, her fingers flying over the touchscreen. Allison raises her eyebrows at this, but says nothing.

Stiles makes his way towards them, calling out a loud and incomprehensible greeting to Scott, who offers him a cheeky smirk in return (“Who knows how many inside jokes those two have?” Allison had once remarked to Lydia in exasperation). Lydia sees Stiles whipping out his phone as he approaches them, ostensibly checking his inbox, and her own grin widens before she makes an effort to school her expression into one of utmost composure.

( _Stilinski – drawing lesson after school today, my place. I need to work on figure drawing now so, clothing optional. And by optional I mean, not allowed in the slightest.)_

Stiles looks up from his phone, eyes wide as saucers, as he comes to a stop in front of them. Scott and Allison are looking at him curiously, but Lydia simply smiles prettily, her expression all sweetness and candy-coated innocence.

“Hey, Stiles,” she says brightly. “How was your weekend?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of just made up the layout of the Stilinski house inside my head to suit the story, I know we've probably seen it countless times in past seasons so I could've gone with the canonical version buuuut I decided to wing it haha. So I'm sorry if it's completely incorrect!
> 
> Again unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> This is the first ~mature~ scene I've ever written so feedback would be so, so, so appreciated!
> 
> Oh, and if you caught it, the whole "Stiles not Stiles" part was actually a sneaky reference to the storyline currently happening in 3B. BUT not in a literal way - the Stiles in this story is very much the real Stiles we all know and love :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Reviews are love!


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